


The Love Thieves

by Malapropian



Series: Songs of Faith and Devotion [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3b compliant, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Consensual Love Spell, Dom Drop, Dom Peter Hale, Dysfunctional Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fire phobia, Fire related trauma, Flogging, Flogging as penance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Safeword Use, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Subspace, love spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-09 21:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11677569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: "Love is not a bandage for dirty sores."But that doesn't mean they won't try their hardest to make it so.Unable to leave the guilt of his possession behind him, Stiles finally agrees to try Peter's unorthodox suggestion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted this earlier today. This fic was complete. It was originally written and posted in May 2015 as a response to an informal Depeche Mode challenge by [Neoladyapollonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoladyapollonia). As far as I know, I'm the only one who wrote something for it. As it was for a Depeche Mode challenge, this was heavily inspired by The Love Thieves and In Your Room.
> 
> The original title art by FckyeahSteter has been replaced by [Pibroch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/Pibroch) since it still had my old pseud on it. I'm still thankful to [Bones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bonesofbirdwings) for editing this for me. It was the first time we worked on a fic together, and I remember it fondly.
> 
> I don't recall if I ever specifically thanked [TriDom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom) and Alternativename for all of their feedback when I wrote this, but this wouldn't have been the story it is without them.
> 
> I've changed the summary and made some edits to the story. The edits are nothing huge, but I did smooth out a few spots and fixed some contradictory bits.
> 
>  
> 
> **Extra warnings and tag explanations are in the end notes.**

“You should reconsider accepting my offer, Stiles. You look terrible.”

“Whatever, asshole. I’ve gone this long without taking you up on any of your creepy little offers. Just quit acting like you actually give a fuck.”

“Ahh, you wound me, Stiles... but what if I did? What if you could _know_ that I only have your best interests at heart?”

“Then I’d wonder if _you_ were possessed for once. We can all take a turn. It’ll be fun for the whole pack!”

“Why don’t you meet me at this address tomorrow, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

“It won’t matter. I’m still not gonna say yes.”

“Oh, Stiles. Haven’t you learned by now that it’s useless to lie to me?”

* * *

Stiles kneels quietly on his cushion, resting his head on Peter’s knee. Out of long practice, he’s unbothered by his nakedness or the way his arms are tied behind him, the rope looping through the buckles on his ankle restraints. Though he’s blindfolded and immobilized—breathtaking in his vulnerability—according to his body language, he’s completely relaxed in the presence of the man he once helped to murder. None of that is his concern right now.

All according to Peter’s plan. It’s only been a month since they started, but Peter’s learned that nothing seems to clear Stiles’ mind as quickly as being bound and forced into stillness.

Peter reclines in an armchair, running his hands through Stiles’ soft, dark hair and indulging in the scent of warm contentment rising between them like the smell of freshly baked bread. He enjoys the aesthetic of pale flesh and bone kneeling before him—bare except for the collar and ropes Peter put there himself—but it’s so much _more_ than that. Deep in subspace, Stiles is lovely. His wholehearted submission retains an edge of innocence; despite the Nogitsune’s actions, Stiles is still good, still worthy to love and be loved.

For a few hours at a time, Peter can even help Stiles believe it.

“Stiles,” Peter murmurs. “It’s almost time. Would you like to keep going?”

“Hmm?”

“Sit up straight, and look at me, darling.”

“Don’t wanna,” Stiles slurs against the denim covering Peter’s knee. “A li’l longer, Sir. S’nice here. Like it.”

Peter frowns at how far out he’s allowed Stiles to float. A foolish mistake, but he can’t deny his own pleasure seeing Stiles sink so deeply into subspace. Seeing the evidence of their mutual love and trust is nearly enough to take his breath away. “No, darling. You’ve been on your knees too long. We don’t have to stop, but let’s get you on the bed. I promise you’ll like that just as much if not better.”

He keeps on petting Stiles while the boy processes the information, looking for a trick. Finally, he agrees in a sulky (adorable) voice, “‘kay. But you hafta carry me. My legs don’t work.”

“See,” Peter teases. “Aren’t you glad I thought to give your knees a rest?” He makes short work of the knots and buckles but leaves the collar in place. Stiles claims that it’s comfortable enough for 24/7 wear, and he always reacts poorly to its removal—nevermind when he’s in _this_ deep. Only after running careful fingers over each limb and checking the flexibility of each joint does he gather Stiles up in his arms.

“Mmhmm.” Stiles drags his face over Peter’s shoulder as though he’s actually a gangly, human-shaped cat who’s happy just to rub his scent all over his owner. “Hey, Peter,” he giggles drunkenly. “Take me t’bed or lose me forever!”

Peter hides a smile; his boy reeks of love and contentment. It’s infectious. “Well, we can’t have that can we?” He lays down his burden, taking the utmost care, and holds Stiles’ hands in his. He presses kisses to each blue-veined wrist as Stiles settles under the fluffy duvet and feels his heart swell with conflicting emotions. “And what should I do with such a demanding little brat now that he’s in my bed?”

“Hmm....” His ridiculous, long lashes flutter as he pretends to think, drawing out the moment. A shadow seems to pass over Stiles’ face, but his usual saucy grin chases it away. “You should sit with me.” He lowers his eyelids in a blatant attempt to be coy.

“And what…” Peter breathes in between sucking kisses down the vulnerable, speckled skin of Stiles’ forearms, “should I do now that I’m here?”

The boy smirks up at him, posing like a king on his throne—a throne that Peter willingly offers to him. “And then….” He stops to brush his mouth against Peter’s, but a few short kisses turn into several while his tongue twines filthily around Peter’s in a way that reminds him of everything else Stiles can do with his wicked tongue.

They’re both breathless and panting when they break away from each other. Stiles ruts against the heavy body blanketing him, shameless in his desire; Peter is ready to make Stiles forget his plan, forget that they have a time limit. But the boy turns his face away and stills beneath him. He starts to detect the faintest scent of anxiety, and that simply won’t do. Stiles comes here to have a few brief hours of freedom from guilt, from stress, from worry.

Peter levers himself up and away from the greedy hip thrusts and ignores the resulting whine. He concentrates on Stiles’ steadying heart rate and the receding scent of anxiety. When Stiles is docile and content once more, he rolls to the side and cuddles him, grabbing for the bottles of water ready on the nightstand.

After guzzling down a bottle and a half, Stiles looks more alert, perky even. “So,” he chirps, “my plan.” He pauses to lend an air of false drama. “We’ve got a few hours left tonight, if we want them. We should order in. Watch a movie. It’ll be _fun_.”

Peter raises a brow in suspicion. “Oh? Which movie would you like, darling?”

Strident, off-key, and with no regard to the neighbors, Stiles wails, “You’ve lost that loving feeling! Wo-ohh! That _lovin' feeling_. You’ve lost that loving feeling now it’s gone, gone, gone. Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh.”

“Brat,” Peter mutters, but the fondness in his tone is unmistakable, judging by Stiles’ unrepentant giggle-snort. “If you’re making us watch Top Gun, then I deserve sushi.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Peter turns away sharply, fingering the wooden heart in his pocket. “No. No I really wouldn’t.”

* * *

“So I came. Whatever. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not, Stiles. By all means, keep lying to yourself.”

“I’m _not_. It’s not like that. Stop twisting my words around!”

“But you make it so easy.”

“Whatever, Peter. Stop wasting my time, and show me whatever you have to show me. Or were you lying about having something?”

“Oh, no. I have no need to lie.”

“Yeah, you just do it for fun!”

“When have I ever lied to you, Stiles? Now try to put aside your bias and look here.”

“What. The. Fuck. Are you _serious_? Do you even? This would mean…. You’re _insane_. Just no, Peter.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t trust me then?”

“No! Maybe. I don’t... I can’t... I... I have to go now.”

* * *

Discreet acquisition and delivery of the _crux decussata_ proves to be almost more trouble than it’s worth, but the stutter and acceleration of Stiles’ heart when he sees it goes a long way towards making up for the annoyance. Now, he prowls around the gloriously naked boy bound to the crux, his fair skin nearly glowing red from a bare-handed spanking. So much beautiful flesh to ruin, and it’s all Peter’s. Stiles whimpers and cries from behind the gag, tears running unfettered down his face, but Peter goes still. He stands behind Stiles and waits. At the lengthy pause, Stiles flashes their hand sign for “all well”, sobbing all the while. It had been too optimistic for Peter to believe that Stiles would be satisfied so soon. It’s clear that tonight the screams of the dead are too loud to bear. Stiles _needs_ the pain so he can feel the cleansing fire of atonement for his sins, real and imagined.

Which Peter will give to him. He can deny the boy nothing—not even this.

“I’ll even give you a choice, sweetheart.” He turns to the cloth-covered table, flipping the fabric back to reveal one implement at a time. Never let anyone say that Peter Hale doesn’t understand the value of showmanship. “Do you want me to raise welts all over your pretty back, or maybe some lovely bruises that you’ll need to hide?”

Stiles shakes his head. He holds up one finger, and shakes his head. He holds up two, and shakes his head again. He holds up three fingers, nods, and makes the “all well” sign.

Peter takes a moment to run that through his Concise Stiles-to-English Dictionary. “You want both?” Stiles signals his agreement once more, and Peter inclines his head. “But first….” He picks up the black and purple elk leather flogger that he almost always chooses for a warm-up. Peter shakes out the falls and takes a few experimental swings as he gets into position behind Stiles. The sound of his preparation is almost as important to Stiles’ mindset as the actual impact.

While he doesn’t rush through the warm-up by any stretch of the imagination, neither does he linger. On a different day, this could have been the main event, but Stiles had arrived here snappish and jittery, eyes bright with the incipient threat of tears. He’s only this calm due to the brief spanking he’s already received. Peter knows that Stiles wants to bleed for his transgressions, but _that_ is a thing he won’t permit again. Not like this. Not today.

As he replaces the elk flogger on the table, he wonders if he should bring it out—a glance at Stiles tells him yes. Sighing, he eyes the newest flogger that Stiles had begged for. Smooth black and gunmetal leather wrap around the handle in a herringbone pattern, but the falls are a mixture of ¾ inch bison and brass chain coated to match the leather. The chain falls are cut shorter than the leather by an inch to decrease the chance of drawing blood. It’s a _mean_ piece of gear; but if that’s what Stiles needs, then that’s what he’ll get.

Besides, it’s not as though he won’t gain anything from the experience. Peter moves towards Stiles and loosens the closure on the back of the ball-gag before laying it aside. “Do you need anything before we begin? Water? A break?”

Stiles shakes his head while he opens and closes his mouth several times. After cracking his jaw, he sighs in relief. “No, Sir. I’m ready. Everything’s green.”

“All right. You know what to expect. We’ll do sets of ten. I won’t stop until I think you’ve had enough or you safeword.”

The boy grins back at him, empty and mocking. “Like I’d safeword over something like this.” Peter hears: _I deserve all this and more._

He purses his lips at the unspoken message, but he puts aside his misgivings, picks up the flogger, and begins. Better that Stiles come to him for this than he find a more dangerous outlet for his feelings. Standing straight and proud, Peter plants his feet and lets his arm drop into the first strike using no more force than normal gravity. Though Stiles prefers his penance fast and harsh with no time to adjust to the blows, Peter opens the set with light strokes. Stiles has no experience with metal falls, and no matter how profound a masochist he is, there’s still the chance it might easily overwhelm his human senses.

They move easily through the first set, and he performs a quick, visual check of Stiles’ back. No broken skin, and the pale, red marks marring white skin are the type that will soon transform into vivid blossoms: a riot of violet-purple and maroon scored over with thin lines. Stiles always bruises like a sadist’s wet dream, but Peter’s not much of a sadist. Not with this broken boy he loves so dearly. Still, there’s a sort of compassion in meting out the punishment Stiles craves. Even his cruelty can be another method of showing his devotion.

It’s time for the next set. “Why are we doing this, Stiles?”

He writhes against the crux, crossed beams and friction bruising his front, as Peter approaches the sting and thud Stiles wants. His head drops down into the vee, air whistling out through his teeth until he can gather the composure to gasp out, “Because it was my fault.”

Peter’s body is still and steady but for his arm. He swings a fraction faster, harder. It’s nowhere near his full strength, even if he were only a human.

“Do you think this will make it better? That it’s enough to make up for what happened?”

“No,” Stiles moans. “But I need to. I have to try. Please, Sir. More. I need more.”

“Drink first, and a check-in.” Peter is unyielding on this point. Although he would smell the blood and even minute changes in Stiles’ emotional state before seeing them, there’s no reason not to take every precaution. He put the flogger down on the table and directs Stiles in taking small sips from the juice box the boy prefers. “Color?”

“Green. I’m good. You can go harder. I _need_ it. Please, Sir.”

“As you wish, darling.” Peter peers into Stiles’ eyes, checking pupil response as he strokes a light hand over his marked back, pulling out the tiniest amount of pain.

“We’ll go to sets of twenty from now on.”

And they do. For the next half hour, Peter reminds himself that this is what Stiles begged him for. That after this, he’ll sleep the sleep of the just. That one day Stiles will believe it wasn’t his fault, and he won’t need such rough expressions of love. But as long as Stiles yields up his pain like a gift, Peter can do nothing else but accept it. He’ll take everything Stiles gives him and own it—even, or especially, the ugly and painful parts of him.

“Why are we doing this, Stiles?”

“Because!” he sobs. “Because I couldn’t stop it.”

“Was it your fault, sweetheart?”

“No.” The word is torn from him. He cries, “No, but I was weak. I was weak, and they died.”

Peter winds down through the set. “You were so strong, darling.” Thud. “You’re so good.” Thud. “Everyone’s forgiven you.” Stiles twitches at the barely-there stroke as though it were a much heavier blow. “Everyone loves you so much.” He sobs at the tickle of the falls on his shoulder. “I love you, baby. I hate to see you hurt like this…. I wish you’d forgive yourself.”

"Red. Red. _Red!_ "

The flogger drops to the floor from Peter’s nerveless fingers, and he rushes to tear the straps from the crux. He’ll replace them later, if Stiles ever wants to use it again. In seconds, he has Stiles off the crux and in a fireman’s carry—not the most comfortable hold for either of them, but it’s better than anything that puts pressure on his tender back.

Stiles’ tears soak into Peter’s shirt from his upside-down position, but he’s soon put face-down on the clean sheets of Peter’s bed. He cries harder when his attempt to curl into a fetal position is stymied by his fresh wounds.

“It hurts, Peter.” He smells bitter, like misery and bone-weary resignation. They both know he’s not talking about his back. Stiles means the guilt, the distance, the occasional look in his father’s eyes when he has to shake a frantic, screaming Stiles out of nightmares, the fear that nothing will ever be the same—that he’ll never truly recover. He knows that, more than anything else, Stiles wonders if he possesses the fortitude to bounce back from his ordeal or if the next threat will be the thing that breaks him.

“Shh. Just let it out, darling.”

He clutches feebly at Peter’s hand and tries to contort himself around Peter’s hip. “I know they forgive me. I know they said there’s nothing to forgive. But I can’t. I can’t forgive myself.”

“I’ll be here until you can.”

Stiles rasps, voice cracking over the words, “I know. Thank you… for everything.”

Except for Stiles’ intermittent sobs, they remain in silence. Stiles is nearly asleep, and probably not fully aware of anything when, like an afterthought, he whispers, “I wish you didn’t make me happier.”

Lie.

Stiles falls asleep like that. Not stirring from unconsciousness as Peter cleans his back. Mechanically applying salve and pulling the worst of the pain from the bruises, he can’t help but feel frustration wash over him. It happens whenever they have a scene based on Stiles’ need for the punishment he thinks he escaped. This boy is so loved, so valued, and he’s so willful in his blindness. Stiles doesn’t understand yet. He chases the chemical rush, and he calls it progress regardless of how empty he feels after the fact.

He finds no redemption in the forgiveness of others. It doesn’t lift him up, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow when Peter would do so much for the same unconditional love they show Stiles. The love, the _absolution_ , he disdains so readily in exchange for the scourge and the flail.

Peter perches beside Stiles, agitated and uneasy. With one hand monitoring Stiles’ pain, he opens a book with the other. Addressing the sleeping boy he murmurs, “I do wish you’d let me take care of you.”

* * *

“Someone looks like he hasn’t slept in a year.”

“Oh, _fuck you_ , dude.”

“It’s a sad day when a man can’t even express concern without having his head bitten off.”

“I’m sure you’d like it if I did something else with your head. Old pervert.”

“Stiles, that was rather weak as a comeback. And when have you ever known me to be motivated by _sex_?”

“What? It’s not like I even know you. When we met, you were running around crazy and trying to kill us. Now you randomly show up when shit’s going down or you want to torment Derek.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think about you, Peter. You know why? Because I’m not going to say yes.”

* * *

“Honey, I’m home!” Stiles carols as he unlocks the door and walks inside. He grimaces in relief, already halfway out of his shoes, rapidly flapping the soggy material of his undershirt against his skin. “Ugh. I’m disgusting. You mind if I grab a shower? The A/C in Roscoe is still shot. It’s like a sauna even with the windows down.”

“Of course, I don’t mind.” Peter makes a moue of distaste when the sweat-soaked shirts come flying at him. “If it’s this bad, there’s no reason to keep refusing to let me pay for the repairs.”

Stiles rushes past, scowling goodnaturedly, tangled in his own pants. “Maybe because I’m not your damned kept boy?” Bangs and clatters follow him as he disappears down the hallway. “Oh hey!” he yells back, forcing a wince from Peter. “Sorry, sorry!” Stiles continues at a more reasonable volume to werewolf ears. “I forgot the thing in my pants, could you go ahead and grab it for me?”

“Yes, dear.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but he stands up and fishes through the discarded pants. He sorts through the bits and bobs, the general detritus from Stiles’ school day, and locates the wooden heart tucked in the tiny coin pocket up front. It’s magenta today. He rolls it through his fingers, thinks about breaking it while Stiles is in another room and can’t notice. He wonders, in morbid fascination, if the change would be sudden or all at once. He never sees what happens afterwards, because Stiles leaves as soon as Peter does it. Peter sits again and broods over the tiny heart, unsure if it is the author of all his problems or the source of all his current happiness, but he spends too long in contemplation. The pipes gurgle, signalling the end of Stiles’ shower, and the moment is gone.

He tucks the little heart into a convenient drawer and puts on a smile. The afternoon is young. He’s rich and in love. He has a gorgeous young thing naked in his house, and Peter doesn’t intend to waste what the day has given him.

As the door creaks open, Peter smells Stiles before he sees him. A wave of steamy air billows out, carrying with it the scent of _Stiles_ , unmarred by any foreign odors with the pleasant exception of Peter’s own bath products and towels. It’s the unadulterated scent of the boy covered in Peter, seeping into his home like Stiles belongs to him and this place. It makes his gums ache with the same urge to _bite_ that Stiles denied him so long ago. His claws elongate in reaction, and the leather is only saved from punctures by Stiles’ quick return to the living room. He’s still damp from the shower and naked save for his collar, Peter’s lips quirk up more genuinely. “However did you manage that? You turn into all elbows whenever you try to use that allen key.”

The boy drops to his knees in front of Peter and glances up through thick lashes, the blatant adoration an addiction he can’t deny. “I guess I was _properly_ motivated.”

“Oh?” Peter’s voice lowers, roughens without his conscious permission. He reaches forward to cup Stiles’ chin. “Maybe I should make you stand in the corner for putting that on by yourself. Good boys don’t deprive their masters of such pleasures.”

He stares, caught, in animal fascination when even, white teeth press into the pink flesh of Stiles’ lower lip. The rush of blood in his face and plump lips tempts Peter beyond his endurance. Almost as pretty as the pale throat stretching before him, set off by the gleaming eternity collar which draws the eye to the fluttering pulse point, the hollow of his throat, the wings of his collarbones. Stiles is a feast for all senses, and Peter means to consume him whole.

* * *

“So how would it work?”

“How would what work?”

“Don’t even play like that, Peter. Maybe the thing you’ve been bugging me about for months? Is that ringing any bells for you?”

“We _do_ discuss other things. Why just last week, we were researching a sticky little problem about dream-walkers, and before that it was pixies… So what’s brought you back to my offer? Was it the dream-walkers, Stiles? Did they find your treasure trove of nightmares and make you re-live them all over again? You have the look of someone who’s woken up screaming for a week.”

“Does the reason even matter? You’re getting what you want, and you still have to be a colossal ass. I don’t have any other options, so yeah. I’ll try it out—but with some conditions! I don’t trust you farther than I can throw Derek.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Stiles. You always were the clever one.”

“Fine. Then I want to research this spell you found, and I’ll provide the foci, and collect the materials. You’re paying for everything.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I want to know you’re not playing me. You can tell when I lie to you, so I want to even the playing field. I want something that will let me know if you’re lying to me.”

“Temporary?”

“Yeah. Just for when we meet. And I want to test all of this first.”

“I may know something we can use. I’ll send the directions to you, so you can research _that_ as well.”

“Right. I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied with my research. See you then.”

“Goodbye, Stiles. I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

It shouldn’t surprise Peter when Stiles appears at his door, one full-moon night, face and chest obscured by a ludicrously large wicker basket.

Cheeky boy.

The last time Peter had been on a full-moon picnic was before Stiles had been born, but Stiles grins and tells Peter that it’s a waste to live in the middle of the preserve and not take advantage of the perks. At present, those perks include being spread out on plush blankets with a pretty boy. Stiles sprawls halfway across his lap as they lie amidst the remnants of their moonlit dinner of tiny sandwiches, freshly-made herbal lemonade, and a chocolate confection closer to fudge than cake.

As Stiles chatters, it’s easier to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his mind that says none of this is under duress. Stiles, the picnic, the full-moon bonding—it’s only happening by Peter’s own choice, because he _wants_ it. He wants the comfort of knowing his anchor is safe and drenched in his scent. He wants to quiet the restless, more primal parts of himself. Every month before, he had the itch under his skin urging him to keep Stiles nearby on a night like this. The relief from his presence threatens to undo him. Before their arrangement, Peter would never tolerate someone compromising him to such a degree. This is so far beyond fascination and attraction that he’s shocked that no one else notices the stench of his feelings for Stiles.

“—is weird isn’t it?” When he needs more than a few seconds to respond, Stiles pokes him in the cheek and growls like a puppy, annoyance obvious in the set of his lips and the angle of his jaw.

“Pardon?”

“Dude! Were you listening to me at all?”

Peter lets loose a low growl and snaps at the offending finger. “Stiles, what have I said about calling me ‘dude’ while you’re wearing my collar?”

“Uhh… not to do it, Sir? But you were _ignoring_ me.”

The insolent, little boy flutters his obscene lashes in mock coquetry. Peter _knows_ he should turn him over his knee this instant. He should follow his routine and nip such bratty behavior in the bud—or that’s what he should have done months ago. Training a person to shape a life around his demands is only effective when followed by consistently reinforcing the rules. Creating and maintaining boundaries are key when cultivating a healthy power exchange, but he also knows that he won’t raise his littlest finger to Stiles for this display of poor manners. He indulges Stiles shamelessly as his sub and in other, more mundane, ways.

He sniffs. “Mind your manners.”

“Yes, Sir. But I was just saying. It’s weird, right? How much we love each other. I mean, I didn’t earlier today—not really?” A tinge of nervousness trickles its way through the scent of Stiles’ contentment. His heart thumps out an awkward beat, as though even his body isn’t sure of the truth, but it recovers seamlessly as he pushes forward. “But, like, I remember how it feels to love you even when the spell isn’t active. I started making my mom’s lemonade and shit without thinking. It’s not like I forgot we had plans or that it was the full moon, but it wasn’t my top priority? I just knew I’d be disappointed if I didn’t get things ready. I did all that before I even set the focus. Then after I triggered it, all I wanted to do was be here with you.” Stiles climbs the rest of the way into his lap and gives him an unhappy smile. “I helped kill you, and now I hate thinking that you’re alone. I want to crawl inside you and just make sure you’re happy.”

Peter swallows hard; he can feel his adam’s apple bob uncomfortably. He rests a gentle hand on Stiles’ nape and leans back, pulling Stiles down with him. His other hand drifts to his jeans pocket to fiddle with tonight’s heart—a lovely, royal purple. “And that’s weird is it?”

Stiles scoffs. “How is it not? It’s totally weird knowing that we’re for real in love with each other—like the forever kind where we only want the best for each other—I didn’t even feel like this about _Lydia_. You know, it’s ironic. This is what I always wanted, but I wouldn’t enjoy it if it we were for real. Guess I’m too fucked up now.” His shoulders twitch. “Eh. It’s still nice to feel it sometimes. It’s how I always imagined my parents felt about each other, makes me feel closer to them….” Stiles slants a challenging glance his way, so Peter keeps his face arranged in attentive neutrality. “But it doesn’t even feel weird to tell you that, and it’s all gonna be gone in a few hours? It’s pretty fucked up. Sir.”

His lips twist into the beginnings of a snarl at the reminder that their feelings are temporary. That’s it’s _all_ temporary. Peter has no claim on the boy. Yes, he’s managed to hook Stiles with the lure of desire, validation, and domination; but it’s all so fleeting. In the morning, Stiles will be free to leave without a backwards glance until their next assignation. Peter can’t prevent the spasmodic clench of the fist that’s crept into his pocket to hold the heart, nor can he deny the surge of spiteful glee when it cracks, stabbing him with the rough edges.

He casually slips his hand out and brushes it against his thigh before he tucks it under Stiles’ shirt, dragging sharp nails up and down the boy’s fragile spine, hard enough to satisfy the primal urge to cover Stiles in red welts for the next several days. “Magic can accomplish great and terrible things. It brought me back to life. Are you so surprised that it can engender true, pure love in my deadened excuse for a heart?”

A cloud of their mixed desire perfumes the air, heavily spiced with the peppery note peculiar to the early stages of Stiles’ arousal. Stiles shakes his head, dragging his nose back and forth through the hair exposed by Peter’s low neckline. “Mm. You always smell good.” Stiles releases a happy sigh then removes himself from the distraction of Peter’s chest hair. “I guess not, if you put it like that.” Peter can’t help the thrum of desire when Stiles’ tongue pokes out to taste the sweat clinging to his skin. He wonders how long this echo of love will last now that he’s destroyed the focus.

“You aren’t as burned or dead inside as you like to claim. I wasn’t even talking about that. But I kinda figured love spells would be more traumatic or brainwash-y. Way less about the healthy feelings and more about the sex.”

“I thought we had plenty of sex. Are you actually disappointed that the spell gave you the best kind of love possible instead of turning us into brainless sex addicts?”

“Well. No... Yes. Maybe a little?” Stiles holds his hand out, pointer finger and thumb the merest millimeter apart to illustrate the precise level of his disappointment.

The only warning Peter gives Stiles is the brief moment of tension before he explodes into a motion. He rolls them both over, easily pinning a wriggling, squawking Stiles and caging him within his arms. His voice drops into the same soft, coaxing whisper from the night in the parking garage. The one that never fails to make Stiles shiver in want. “I can’t have my boy so disappointed… what can I do to make it up to you, darling?”

Stiles’ eyes gleam as they catch the moonlight, the pupils dilating until only a thin ring of brown remains visible. He arches his neck in supplication, collar glinting dully. He smells like potent lust and undiminished affection. Painful relief crashes over him, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world to catch Stiles by the hips and grind their denim-covered erections together.

“Yeah, this is a good start,” Stiles moans when Peter sucks hard at the sensitive spot directly above his carotid artery and nips at the rapidly purpling bruise. “We’ve never had wolfed-out sex before. I want you to rough me up. Lose control.”

His sight sharpens, painting the world red. His fangs lengthen on Stiles’ tender flesh, pinching at his jugular in a dangerous tease. Stiles whimpers, long fingers threading into his hair and tugging him in for a sloppy kiss. He traces the points of Peter’s canines, lets Peter suck on his tongue that still tastes like rich chocolate and tart lemon.

Low whines burst from Stiles’ throat. He bucks up helplessly to gain some much-needed friction on his cock, but Peter pushes up from Stiles—he holds his prey immobile and waits.

Stiles moans in shameless abandon. “Please. I need you. I fucking love you. _Please, Sir_.”

Though the spell is broken, Stiles’ heartbeat and scent can’t lie. Benevolent in victory, Peter smirks at the boy quivering beneath him, a willing victim. “Far be it from me to deny you your wishes, darling.”

* * *

“A heart? How quaint.”

“Just shut your mouth. They’re made out of wood, so they were alive once—which works better for the spell. Then the symbolism of two hearts made one. Sympathetic magic is a thing for a reason. _And_ I could buy them in bulk.”

“What else do you need from me?”

“I just need a drop of blood from both of us. I have the rest of the paste mixed here. Thanks. Now we wait for it to kick… _oh._ That’s different.”

“Indeed.”

“Wow.”

“Aren’t you glad I had you do the lie detection spell before this?”

“Uh. Yeah. Good call. Oh my god, Peter. This is. This is really _nice._ I know we were supposed to break it now, but can we, like, snuggle for a minute?”

“I live to serve, darling.”

“Darling? I never figured you for being the pet name kinda guy.”

“So you’ve thought of how I might use endearments?”

“Duh. Who wouldn’t? I’m a sexually flexible teenage boy, and you’re _hot_. Now shut up and snuggle.”

“Only if you’re the little spoon.”

“It’s just for a few minutes, then I’ll get up.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Ugh. Did you stare at me while I was sleeping like some big stalker weirdo?”

“Yes, Stiles. I lay here awake, holding you in my arms, wishing that you’d sleep longer just so we could stay like this.”

“Dude, you should probably break the heart. That wasn’t a lie at all.”

“Of course.”

“Whoa. That’s just trippy as hell. I’m gonna take off now, but I’ll call you if there’s a problem. If it works, then we’re all set for next Friday.”

“Until Friday.”

* * *

Instead of following his months-long routine of throwing off his clothes and kneeling by Peter, Stiles climbs into Peter’s lap and nuzzles under his jaw. “Hi,” he breathes. “I missed you so much this week.”

“Did you now?”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles continues his exploration of Peter’s stubbled jaw and up his chin, pressing sweet kisses to his face and the corners of his mouth. “It’s nice being here. I don’t need to think about anything because you’ll take care of it.”

“You just saw me a few days ago.”

“It felt like forever. It’s like I need to see you sooner and sooner or I’ll go crazy. Just vibrate out of my skin.” Stiles sighs, breath ruffling the hair at Peter’s temple. “You make it all go quiet.”

He feels Stiles relax into his hold as though his burdens are no match for Peter’s mere presence, as though Peter has the ability to coax them free until they drop one-by-one from his shoulders. A long exhale shudders out of him, and Stiles goes boneless in relief.

They sit curled around each other long enough for Stiles to drowse with his face tucked under Peter’s chin, close enough to his heart that he suspects Stiles wants the comfort of hearing the steady beat of his heart. Too many more of these casual intimacies, and Peter might be ruined for life.

“Hate you,” Stiles mutters and inhales deeply. “You always smell so good. It’s totally unfair. I must smell like locker rooms, fast food, and gross things.”

“That’s not true at all.” Peter smiles and drops a kiss to Stiles’ gel-spiked hair. “Yes, you smell like sweat, but it’s good, clean. It’s like you, but _more_. You smell like your Jeep and that hypoallergenic detergent you’ve been using since Scott was bitten.” He gives an exaggerated sniff and lets his eyes glow blue. “You smell like lust and lazy contentment and _me_.”

“Lust and lazy contentment? What’s that like? Not acrid like deception?”

“Hmm. Let me refresh my memory.” He tilts Stiles’ face up and kisses him—a mere press of closed mouths until Stiles opens his lips on a moan, begging for Peter to deepen the kiss. With a last firm suck to Stiles’ plush lower lip, he slips into the teaching voice that Stiles loves and loathes in equal measure. “And _there_ we are, sweetheart. Your lust is always a little spicy, like cardamom and freshly ground black pepper. Contentment is somewhat more abstract. Let’s say that it reminds me fresh bread.”

“I smell like chai tea and a bakery? Is that why you always get dirty chai lattes and bagels at Hot Corner?” Stiles giggles and bites his swollen lip to hide a grin, the one when he knows he’s about to say something ridiculous. He widens his eyes like an ingenue and asks in a breathy, high pitch, “Do I make you hungry, Sir?” Stiles lays a hand on his chest, long fingers stretching past his collarbones to brush exactly where his collar would rest.

Incorrigible brat. He ignores Stiles’ antics, curls his lip in amusement. He listens for the tiny hitch of breath and tell-tale stutter in Stiles’ heart when a hint of fang catches on his lip. Peter’s smile widens. “For you, sweetheart? Positively _ravenous_.”

“ _Oh._ ” Now Stiles loses the wide-eyed innocence. His eyelids droop as he licks his lips. The aroma of spiced bread and boy intensifies.

He leans closer until his lips brush the shell of Stiles’ ear and murmurs, “You have five minutes to be stripped and kneeling on the bed. Put on the blue blindfold.” After a brief squeeze to Stiles’ hips, he dips his fingers into Stiles’ pockets and urges him away. “Off you go, sweetheart. And no talking until I say.”

Stiles stumbles off his lap and pelts down the short hallway. Peter keeps one eye on the clock and the other on the heart he just plucked from Stiles’ pocket. He listens as Stiles follows his orders. Judging by the stillness and calm breathing, Stiles doesn’t discover the theft and gets into position with a few seconds under a minute to spare, but Peter’s in no rush. He waits out the full five minutes before cracking the pretty, blue heart in the vice of his fingers. Pocketing the pieces, he stands up and strolls into the room.

As he steps over the threshold, Peter tugs off his shirt, uncaring when it falls to the floor. He flicks open the button fly of his jeans and smirks at the sight of a naked Stiles kneeling in perfect posture. Stiles is stunning—all long, lean muscles stretched to their advantage as he grips his elbows behind his back and keeps his head lowered. His fair skin practically glows against the royal blue of the duvet and the blindfold. He only needs his collar to complete the picture.

“Such a good boy, sweetheart.”

Stiles shivers at the praise and corrects his posture to an exaggerated degree, pulling his shoulders back and thrusting his pink nipples out in the cool air. He opens his mouth, but Stiles only flicks his tongue over his lips—as ordered, not a word escapes him. For Stiles, love and praise always serve as the most effective motivation. He really is an obedient little thing despite his bratty tendencies.

He bypasses the neat pile of plaid and khaki to open the polished wooden box on the dresser and lift out the lightweight titanium collar and allen key. A few measured steps carry Peter over to Stiles’ side; he skates his free hand down the knobs of Stiles’ spine, relishing in the sudden inhalation and pounding heart. Already, the rush of blood through Stiles’ body sweeps its way from his high cheekbones to his chest in pretty, uneven streaks of red.

“So pretty like this, darling.” he murmurs and, with a practiced twirl of his fingers, twists the screw free just enough so that the collar falls open at the hinge. Peter’s deft in manipulating the tiny screw and equally tiny allen key, and soon lays the fastened collar in its rightful place at the base of Stiles’ neck. “You’re always gorgeous, but now you’re perfect.”

Stiles beams in the direction of Peter’s voice; his blush intensifies, but he maintains Peter’s order for silence.

“Very good. You’ve been so good lately that I have a surprise for you. Something you’ve wanted for a while, but you didn’t think I’d do.” Stiles tilts his head in question, heart rate picking up in what might be anxiety. Peter curls a finger into the collar and tugs him closer, until he can lean close enough for his lips to brush Stiles’ with every word, “I _promise_ that you’ve mentioned it before. You know you can stop it all if you don’t like it, and I won’t be disappointed.”

Peter nips at Stiles’ bottom lip in parting, and opens the only locked drawer in the dresser. He keeps the key in plain sight, right by the box with Stiles’ collar. It’s the only place in the house where Stiles doesn’t have permission to look—no exceptions—and Stiles hasn’t betrayed that display of trust in spite of how Peter tested his resolve.

The contents of the drawer change regularly, and today it houses a small basin, a set of jar candles, and matches. The candles are custom-made of 100% paraffin—an undyed, low temperature wax specifically intended for the use they’re about to see. Stiles’ head jerks as the glass clinks against the wood; it’s the worst sort of torture to prepare when he has no way to know what’s happening beside him. Incidentally, Stiles’ thwarted curiosity never fails to satisfy the smug, petty parts of Peter’s psyche.

Smug satisfaction and love aren’t mutually exclusive. Besides, he doesn’t claim to be a saint—they’re both works in progress here. And yet… he pauses, frowns at the uncharacteristic pangs of conscience. In annoyance, he removes the heart pieces from his pocket and flings them into the open drawer.

Out of sight, out of mind. None of it matters anymore. He has Stiles, and they’re _in love._ And if his hands shake a bit, then that’s to be expected. He’s about to pick up a candle and _hold it in his hand_. It has nothing to do with his lies of omission to Stiles, nothing to do with the way he’s manipulating their relationship.

As he likes to remind himself, Stiles walked into this with his eyes open. He knows who Peter is and loves him anyway. So what if he believes that it’s a spell? It’s still treacly, disgusting love of the highest order. It still counts—and now he’s only distracting himself.

Peter takes a deep breath. Holds it. Exhales slowly. He does it again. Does it a third time. He keeps doing it until he can feel every muscle relax. Until that quiet, dispassionate corner of his mind notes that there’s no more tremor in his hands. _Good_. All his practice won’t go to waste. He picks up the book of extra-long matches, and strikes one. Swiftly, he brings it to the wick and lights a candle. From the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles startle at the odd hiss-flare of the match catching light. He discards the spent match in a convenient dish. Stiles’ nose crinkles from the sulfurous scent—and it’s even more potent to a werewolf recovering from a phobia of fire. The corners of Stiles’ lips turn down, his mouth opens and shuts; he smells worried more than aroused, and that simply _won’t do._

He licks his lips, mouth unusually dry; yet he pulls off his usual voice with panache. “You’ve been so patient for me, darling. Just a bit longer.”

“Yes, Sir.” Stiles smiles at Peter as though _he’s_ the one who should be offering reassurances in this situation. The boy really is oddly sweet underneath the sarcasm and selfishness and ridiculous death drive.

“Stay right where you are. I’ll be right back.” Buoyed by that smile—by his patiently waiting Stiles—Peter takes the basin into the attached bathroom. He doesn’t check to see if Stiles obeys. There’s no need. Five months into their relationship has shown Stiles the value of obedience.

When Peter steps back through with a cloth and a full basin, Stiles is in exactly the same place and position on the bed. His face is calm, mouth slack as he breathes deeply, working himself into the right headspace for whatever comes. Peter sets the basin on the nightstand, within easy reach for emergencies.

Peter thinks rather distantly that, for him, the line between love and insanity must be exceedingly thin. He picks up the candle. The glass is warm. There’s already a nicely growing pool of wax. To some people, the fire might be pretty.

Of course, they’ve probably never experienced full-body burns. This is nothing like burning. With the proper materials, from the correct height, the wax will be no more than 110℉. It will be a pleasurable experience—not fire, not lava. It will be like tiny rivers of warmth running over all that lovely, smooth skin.

Stiles loves temperature play. He’ll love wax, and Peter will love wringing those shocked gasps and moans from his lips. If he can bring himself to move towards the bed. With leaden feet, he grimaces and takes his first slow step. The rest of them follow more easily, and he’s there. Peter puts the candle down next to the basin, and sighs softly. He strokes the soft tufts of hair sticking up from the blindfold, and tells Stiles what to expect. “I know we’ve done temperature play, but this is something new. You might find it startling or unpleasant. I need you to tell me _immediately_ if you don’t like it. Don’t wait and see. Don’t try to be brave about this, okay?” He kisses Stiles’ temple, lets the scent soothe him.

“I’ll be good, Sir. I promise to safeword if I need to.”

“Good boy. Lie down on your back for me. Keep your hands on the pillow.”

Stiles shakes his shoulders and stretches. He sinks down onto the sheets, unfolding himself with a uniquely awkward grace as he turns over and grips the pillow, adjusting it so his head rests at just the right angle. Stiles is a waiting sacrifice, a pale canvas—all Peter’s to defile in whatever manner he deems best. A gift unlooked for.

Candle in hand, he steels himself and splashes his inner wrist with a few drops of wax. Satisfied with the temperature, he reaches for Stiles and runs a warning fingertip across the skin, neatly bisecting Stiles’ chest. Enjoying the heady spice of Stiles’ confused arousal, he tips the glass with a rock-steady hand. Slow droplets meet skin as Peter neatly pours wax on the invisible, guiding line he’d just traced. Stiles chokes on thin air, shocked and pained. It’s a high whine, a sound of distress, but the rapid bloom of desire on the air tells a different story. No matter the scenario, Stiles is always starving, insatiable for sensation; pleasure and pain make no difference to him. He circles a rosy, areola with the same fingertip and follows the motion with a careful twist of the jar.

Stiles bucks his hips and gasps, half-hard cock bouncing at the movement. “Oh!”

“Is it everything you hoped?” Peter asks, expecting the answer to be yes, green. Full speed ahead. _Please, Sir, may I have some more._ Yet somehow Stiles always surprises him.

“Red, Sir.”

A hairsbreadth away from full panic, Peter extinguishes the candle and tucks it behind the basin. His hands are gentle as he removes the blindfold, even as he snaps out, “What’s wrong, Stiles? Are you hurt? _Did I burn you?_ ”

“What? No! Sir… Peter. I’m fine. I promise.” Stiles grabs onto Peter’s hands where they’re trying to leech pain from the bits of skin beneath the hardening dribbles of wax decorating his chest. He pulls an unresisting Peter into his arms and kisses him, tears leaking from his eyes. After they break apart, Stiles shifts Peter’s face into the crook of his neck and holds him tightly—like Peter is the one who’s precious. It’s disorienting.

“And what the hell were you thinking? I _knew_ I smelled matches, but I thought.” Stiles chokes, rocks him furiously. “I thought, no way. Peter would have talked to me about that first. Before bringing fire into the bedroom. I… what made you think I wanted this from you? That I would want you to hurt yourself like this? After everything that’s happened?”

Peter refuses to lift his face from the refuge of Stiles’ neck when he answers. It isn’t often that he experiences shame, and he’d rather not look Stiles in the eye when he feels this scraped-out and raw. “It wasn’t just for you, but it made a good test for my progress.”

“You’ve been practicing. Of course, you’ve been trying to give yourself immersion therapy. God forbid you have an easily exploitable weakness.” Stiles blows out a harsh breath. “For fuck’s sake, Peter. I would have helped you! You didn’t need to do _this_. I’ve been fucked up for a long time. I know I haven’t always been the best. Even under a love spell, I’m selfish and mean and I’ve asked for a lot from you. You didn’t always _like_ beating me that hard, but you did it. This is supposed to be a fair exchange. I just—” Stiles tugs a hand at his own hair, frustration rolling off of him. “ _Really?_ What made you think I wouldn’t ask for something I really wanted? I can’t keep my mouth shut most of the time,” he continues quietly.

A trickle of hurt mingles with the frustration, and Peter noses at the soft skin of Stiles’ neck, laps at the salty sweat there—giving and taking comfort in the same gesture.

“I love you. I would never ask for this. Not from you. I don’t care how much I liked it. That was so far from okay, I can’t even say. I helped kill you with fire, and I never apologized for it. You were fucking nuts then, so I’m not sorry we put you down… but the fire. That–that was really fucked up, man. Even for me. We should have done something else.”

Perhaps he’s going crazy again, hearing things, but Peter never expected any of them to apologize for even that much. Truth be told, that choice is part of why he respects Stiles and Lydia so much. Who else of their little group could be that cold and pragmatic? Still, hearing the words acts as a balm. It’s strange how far they go to soothing his current state of mind, or maybe it’s not so strange at all. All he knows is that this is precisely what he wanted in his feral state, when he ran around biting teenagers willy-nilly. Yes, he had needed revenge, but also pack, comfort, emotional validation.

His heart lighter, he mutters, “You _did_ say you wanted to try it. When we were watching Temple of Doom. You said you’d enjoy it.”

The recognizable sound of Stiles slapping his forehead interrupts his half-hearted complaint. “Oh. My. God. Peter, can we please never base our kinky sex plans on things I said when I was half-asleep and watching Indy burn the shit out of himself on a bed of candles. And _damn it_. I can’t believe you even watched that with me. We could have _skipped it_ and watched Crystal Skull.” In blatant, affectionate exasperation, Stiles grumbles, “How is this is even my life?”

Peter sniffs. “Skip Temple of Doom for Crystal Skull? Heresy. I simply averted my eyes.”

“You big, fucking nerd.” Stiles turns his face to nuzzle Peter’s forehead, hands landing lightly on his temples. He applies just the right amount of pressure in tight circles, easing a tension headache Peter hadn’t even noticed developing.

He’s dimly aware of the soft muttering and random exclamations of “fucking Indy” from Stiles as they shift to lie entwined, curved around and into each other like perfectly interlocking pieces. It’s simple to enjoy Stiles’ long fingers massaging the back of his neck and head. No one is hurt. No one is burning. How strange that such care comes from one who would have happily seen him dead barely more than a year ago. In soul-deep relief, Peter rests against him and closes his eyes—only for a moment, and then he’ll clean up….

Waking in Stiles’ arms is a strange experience made stranger by the fact that he’s grinding his hard-on in the juncture of Stiles’ thigh like _he’s_ the schoolboy in this relationship. The fact that Stiles thrusts back as much as the position allows is a slight sop to his pride.

Despite the lingering oddness of this role reversal, Peter smiles into Stiles’ neck. “Hello, darling.” He punctuates the greeting with a fluid roll of his hips. The air is redolent with happiness and arousal—the bitter tang of pre-cum fills his nostrils, making him wonder how long Stiles has been trapped under him with no relief.

“Ohh,” Stiles stretches languorously, rubbing the wet tip of his cock against the well-worn denim of Peter’s jeans. “Someone’s in a better mood, huh?”

“Mmm. I woke up with a beautiful, naked boy writhing under me,” he smirks. “What’s not to like?”

“How about the fact that you’re not naked and inside me _right now?_ ”

“Cheeky,” he reprimands, but his heart isn’t in it. Peter keeps rocking against Stiles’ inner thigh. Every small discomfort is impossibly good, from the sweat-damp friction to the hard bite of metal buttons and the catch and drag of his cock against scratchy hair. They prove this isn’t a fantasy or something he can’t have. They all contribute to the glorious, messy reality.

“You like it. Now c’mon. You should be way more naked for this.” Stiles tugs pointedly at the loose waistband. “That can’t feel good on your dick.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re not the only one who finds pleasure in minor discomfort.” But Stiles has a point about the pants; right now, they only serve as an unnecessary restriction, crushing his balls. With a smirk and flourish of claws, he shreds his pants all the way down the seam and rolls out of the denim ribbons clinging to his legs. Eyebrows raised and fully nude, he reclines on the pillows. “More naked, as requested.”

“Awesome,” Stiles breathes and launches himself on top of Peter so that they’re skin to skin, a tingling line of contact from neck to ankle. It takes no thought to grasp Stiles by the waist and pull him closer, aligning their hips so Peter can rub against his blood-hot cock. Stiles moans at the spit-slick hand Peter shoves between their bodies. “Oh god,” he whines. “Are we really doing this? The lube’s right over—ugh! Sir. It’s right there!”

Peter jacks them lazily, like wake-up sex is something they do, like they have all the time in the world to chase after their orgasms. He lives in the moment during every encounter with Stiles—he knows that they won’t last—but today feels different. Today could be the start of something new. His hand speeds up, the pulls harder and the slightest bit rougher—still in control, but he’s nearing the end of his endurance, and he wants them to come together. He needs the smell of their release to sink deep in their skin, until it can’t be washed away. Until even humans can smell them all over each other, so they won’t mistake Stiles as anything but _his_.

“I want you to come for me, baby. Come all over me, let everyone know who owns you. Who loves you. Be a good boy.” Peter thumbs over the glans and traces the sharp edge of a nail over the slit, teasing the entrance with delicate pressure as fluid seeps past.

“Please,” Stiles whimpers. “Peter. Sir. I’m close.”

“Let it happen, Stiles. Come. _Come now._ ”

Peter’s hand spasms; he can feel the tension rising in his thighs, his spine. Then the hot rush of Stiles’ cum coats his hand and belly—the sharp, musky scent overwhelms him and triggers his own orgasm. By the time they finish coming, Stiles has melted against him, a good-smelling armful of sticky, sated, shuddering boy.

Stiles groans. “Ugh. I’m dead. Ten out of ten, would do again.”

“I suppose this means you want me to clean us up?”

Stiles’ head shoots up at Peter’s words. He scowls and pokes him in the sternum. “No way, mister. You’re going to lie back and think of England while I do all the work.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing?” Peter nips at the earlobe hovering temptingly close to his teeth. “Taking care of me like that.”

Dark splotches of red rise up in his cheeks—Stiles never blushes delicately. He ducks his head, in something that might be genuine shyness and mutters into Peter’s chest. “You’re always taking care of me. I thought you’d like it if I did the same sometimes.” He lays a kiss over Peter’s heart and rests his cheek there. “I’ve been thinking that this was a good idea. Maybe. Maybe this can be a thing we do. Together. Eventually. I don’t know? It’s just nice, and maybe we can have something nice?”

Peter’s arms close around Stiles and squeeze lightly. He needs to tread quite carefully here. “With or without the spell, I’d like that very much. We can try things out on a trial basis.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course, darling. I’ve always liked you.”

He sucks in a noisy breath. “Okay. Next week. We can try then.” Stiles stretches within the circle of Peter’s arms and pushes off, nearly kneeing him in the balls on the dismount. He dips a finger into the water in the basin and recoils in horror. “Holy crap. This feels like _icicles_. How did you get this out of the faucet?”

“It was normal tap water. I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“I am a fragile human flower, and I say this water is too damned cold to put anywhere delicate. I think my dick shrivelled up at the thought of it.” He shivers once more in theatrical disgust, scratching absently at the semen crusting on his skin. Grimacing, he wrings out the hand towel and dabs at the worst of the mess. “Guess that’s good enough for government work. I’ll be right back with water that won’t give us chilblains.”

Stiles dumps the “frigid” towel in the water and picks up the basin. As he turns, Peter sees it happen almost in slow motion. _The drawer_. The drawer of secrets that Stiles never looks inside. In his earlier distress, Peter had left it open carelessly—a foolish mistake. Stiles stands transfixed by what can only be the remainder of the candles and the broken spell focus. His heart flutters, races much too fast for safety before giving an odd painful thump and slowing in an eerie calm.

It smells like a storm is coming.

Trembling hands deposit the basin back on the nightstand. For a long moment, Stiles stares at the drawer, silent and immobile. When he turns to face Peter, it’s as though every movement requires great effort. His face is chalk-white, and his eyes are empty.

In a mechanical voice, he states the obvious, “You broke the heart.”

He can’t lie, doesn’t want to; he may as well own the truth. “Yes, Stiles. I did.”

“Was this the first time?”

“No.”

“How long?” Emotion seeps back into his voice; it’s anger, but Peter supposes that it’s better than the terrible emptiness from before. “How long have you been lying to me?”

His lip curls. He can’t help sneering a bit. “It wasn’t a lie. You can tell when I lie. I just withheld certain extraneous information. It didn’t hurt you, and you said so yourself. You were _happy_. You can still be happy here, with me. This doesn’t change anything, Stiles.”

“I told you before.” Stiles clutches at his wrists, his hair, his collar. He grabs his clothes from the dresser and starts to pull them on haphazardly. “I told you. I wasn’t okay. I’m not okay. I thought this had rules. Parameters. I thought I could trust what was here and what wasn’t here, and then things started getting confusing.” He pauses, hands shaking too violently to button his overshirt. “I worried about bleed-through, but that’s not how the spell worked. I thought maybe I was developing my own feelings. Real ones. But now. How am I supposed to know what was real? What was manipulated? What was really me? Now I have to go home and wonder about it. Think about when it changed. How it changed. _Oh my god._ ”

“Stiles,” he coaxes. “It was all real. Even the spell. That’s what it does. It was designed to solve blood feuds. Everyone’s much less inclined to kill each other if they can seal the deal with a happy marriage or two. Everything you felt, with and without it, was real. I know it must frighten you.”

“Bullshit! You don’t get to decide what’s relevant to me, and you sure as hell don’t get to tell me, ‘By the way, the spell you thought was working was actually _never fucking on_.’”

“It was an accident the first time.”

“And the second time? The time after that? Fucking _today_?” Stiles glares fiercely. “Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

It makes his head spin with how quickly the situation has shifted. Everything had been going so well. He almost had it all. Now it’s slipping through his fingers.

“Stiles, what about what you said? You said that you wanted to try next week. I’ve broken the spell on your arrival for the last six weeks. How does that change the situation? Nothing’s different,” he urges. “You’ll see when you feel the same. You _can_ have nice things. We’d be good together, you and I.” Carefully, he leans forward to take Stiles’ limp hand in his. “I’ll help you through this, too. I promised to be there for you. Stiles, I lo—”

“ _Stop,_ ” he pleads in an agonized voice. “Just stop it. I can’t. Don’t you understand?” Misery and rage and self-loathing pour off of him in endless waves. “Every time you said that was true. It was real, and it wasn’t the spell, and _I can’t_. You can’t just put that on me. You don’t know what it was like being possessed. Not knowing. Losing parts of yourself every night. To not know if you can trust your memories. I–you took that away from me when you didn’t tell me what you were doing.”

“Darling. Please. Ask me if it’s real. Ask me if I love you. I never wanted this to hurt you…” But Stiles turns away, shakes his head in hysterical denial. In resignation, Peter murmurs, “You were never meant to discover it. We’d get our happily ever after, and you’d never know how I cheated at the game.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, Peter. It was never a game for me. If I fell in love, then I wanted to know it was happening. I needed that. For my own peace of mind.” It’s a cold comfort that the collar is still locked around his throat. He’s sickly pale and shaking in fury. Even now, hair mussed and shirt inside out, Stiles is beautiful. “You’re right. We could have been so good together. I trusted you, and you couldn’t help playing power games and manipulating things. _You_ ruined this."

Done with the conversation, Stiles stuffs his sockless feet into battered sneakers and strides out. A moment later, Peter hears the jingle of keys. The door slams shut. He hears Stiles kick his tires and shout, “ _fuck_ ”.

Another door is wrenched open and banged shut. There’s the roar of Roscoe’s engine turning over. Then Stiles is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whether it's new or old to you, thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you think. 
> 
> This was the original ending, but I wrote the epilogue for people who couldn't bear the angst. I'll post it after giving this chapter time to breathe.  
>   
>   
>   
>   
> Tag explanations:
> 
> Consent issues: Peter pursues Stiles despite continued refusals. Peter also breaks the love spell that they've consented to use without telling Stiles. General consent issues for the love spell. Although its use is consensual, you could argue that anything they do under it is in an altered state.
> 
> BDSM: Peter and Stiles enjoy it, but they also use it as a form of therapy for Stiles' post-Nogitsune issues. There are some unhealthy motivations surrounding the BDSM. Stiles wants to be flogged because he wants punishment. His desire at that point is mostly non-sexual despite his masochism, and Peter doesn't have a sexual reaction to Stiles during that scene. One of my pre-readers had a strong reaction to what they read as Peter experiencing dom drop. In the last scene, Peter surprises Stiles with a new kink mid-scene.
> 
> Safeword use: Stiles uses his safeword twice. Once to protect his own feelings, and another time to protect Peter.
> 
> Fire phobia: Peter begins a waxplay scene with Stiles despite his trauma and severe discomfort with it. Stiles ends the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the original epilogue, barring some minor edits. I wasn't going to repost it, but it seemed unfair to anyone who liked the original story or like I was trying to hide something I hated. I don't hate this epilogue, but it's true that I never wanted to write it.
> 
> At a time, I plan to write an alternate epilogue more to my personal tastes than this one, but until that time: here you go.

For a few days, Peter believes that Stiles will come back. It’s not the first fight they’ve had. Each time, Stiles had reappeared at the house, rueful and apologetic.

The day of their next meeting comes and goes. More meetings ( _dates_ ) pass without word from Stiles. He never calls or texts. Peter can recognize a breakup when he sees it.

On one of those regularly scheduled visitation days, he sits in his usual armchair, pretending not to stare at the ticking clock. Peter wonders what he thought he’d accomplish by breaking the spell. If the momentary satisfaction is worth the memory of that stricken look on Stiles’ face. The utter betrayal written on every line of his body.

When he finds himself exiting Hot Corner, sipping a dirty chai latte and holding a bag of everything bagels for Stiles, he knows it’s not. But what’s done is done. There’s only the way forward—a truly pathetic future where Peter buys Stiles’ favorite things because he can’t remember it’s over.

Peter refuses to be chained by the past. He believes in the future. He believes in whatever unequal portion he can beg, borrow, or steal. And none of that counts if he can’t hang on to it. Above all, Peter doesn’t do regret or self-hatred... or that’s what he would have said before. Before Stiles. Before the spell.

He can claw his way from the grave with his nephew as a spell-battery. He can transform fear and indifference to true love. He can change the fabric of reality.

It is intolerable that he can’t go back and fix what’s wrong.

It is even more intolerable knowing that he might be responsible.

* * *

At the end of June (or twenty-three days after Stiles left), Peter forces himself to leave the house. Not that his disagreement with Stiles has turned him into a shut-in, even if _Derek_ , of all people, brings it up—the concern awkward in his nephew’s mouth. A few cutting words is all it takes to ensure that it will take more than Peter turning into a hermit who obsessively rereads _The Count of Monte Cristo_ for Derek to interfere again.

Peter doesn’t have any concrete plans—all he knows is that the smell of Stiles is fading more everyday. He needs to get out. Watch a movie. Perhaps see to the shopping he’s put off for the better part of a week.

He showers because he refuses to lower himself to the level of the clichéd lovelorn wreck, but shaving and trimming the goatee require more effort than groceries deserve. If the henley he pulls on had been borrowed by Stiles often enough to hold his scent in the fibers, then who can blame him? More to the point, there’s no one to notice and smirk at Peter’s hidden vulnerability.

If it takes Peter twice the normal amount of time to drive to Trader Joe’s, then that’s his concern. If he wants to waste the gas, well, that’s his god-given right as the owner of an SUV. It is especially his own concern if he bypasses the produce to fill his shopping cart with lobster ravioli, microwavable Indian meals, and every damned Speculoos product that Trader Joe’s carries. Peter has just made the momentous decision that, yes, he does need the Rosemary Raisin Crisps _and_ the Fig  & Olive Crisps, when he smells it. Stiles is here.

A brief tactical retreat behind the coffee grinders reveals his mistake. Peter doesn’t know if it’s better or worse. Instead of Stiles, it’s a beleaguered Sheriff Stilinski in eyeglasses and civilian clothes, standing by a display of sea salt caramels. He looks like a normal father in his rumpled jeans and polo, so different from Peter’s usual perception of him. The main thing Stiles had said about his father was that he knew about the deal and wouldn’t show up to shoot Peter for doing filthy, kinky sex-things to his only child. That’s hardly a claim to inspire much faith.

It’s not as though Peter will definitely run into the man. It’s a big store with a lot of aisles. A quick stop at the cheese section, and he can grab the brie and filled pasta. After that, it’s smooth sailing to the checkout. Mission accomplished.

“Peter Hale?”

Of course, it can’t be that easy. Carefully arranging his face in an expression of polite interest, Peter turns around. “Oh, hello there, Sheriff. I didn’t see you.”

The sheer disbelief on the man’s face is quite impressive. It reminds him of Stiles’ eloquent face.

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s true with the way you ducked by the grinders,” Stilinski snorts. “Besides. I think you ought to call me John with how well you know my kid.”

Peter’s head bobs in an abortive nod then stills. It’s irksome to be caught out so easily, but running into the sheriff— _John_ —has him a bit off-kilter.

“John then. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Sure,” John replies in a suspiciously friendly tone. “You can tell me why my kid’s screaming nightmares started back up after he stopped seeing you.”

 _Shit._ Stiles really had told his father about them. He glances around them, thankful for the witnesses and the sheriff’s lack of gun. Subtly, Peter inhales, interpreting the man’s scent and adding that to body language, tone, and heart rate. Worry, annoyance, interest, but no anger. Well, that’s unexpected. Leave it to the Stilinskis to surprise him.

“As you said, I haven’t seen him in weeks,” Peter replies. _Twenty-three days and twenty hours._ “I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Is that right?” John lifts a can of coffee in each hand. “What do you think, Peaberry or Sumatran? Stiles has been after me to buy the cold-brewed stuff, but I’m a traditionalist.”

“Ah,” Peter stalls. This is an increasingly strange conversation, and he gets the feeling that it’s not nearly over. “I’ve always been partial to Kona myself.”

“Good choice.” He thunks both canisters back on the shelf and grabs the Kona. “So those nightmares. It seems strange that they’d come back as soon as he stops meeting you.”

“Circumstantial at best.”

“Maybe so.” John claps him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you walk with me for a while, Peter? I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you for a few months now.” The fingers tighten and slip away. “Stiles gave me a list, but his handwriting is terrible. You might be able to help translate some of it.”

Peter glances from John’s determined face to the microwavable meals in his cart and sighs. “I’d be delighted, Sheriff.”

“John. I insist.”

Which is how Peter ends up trailing after John as he painstakingly follows the list Stiles gave him. It’s surprisingly pleasant to spend time with the man as they wander through the offensively tropical decor and examine produce together. Occasionally, John will squint at the list and mutter things like: “What the hell is a carob?” and “They make flour out of tapioca?”. Peter imagines that, given the chance, perhaps they might have learned to like each other. Maybe they’d even be friends, drawn together out of a shared love for Stiles.

He waits for John to finish checking out. What’s a few more minutes in the scheme of things? Really, he wants to know why the man dragged him through the entire store—it was hardly for the pleasure of his company. It’s clear that John has something to say. It can only be about Stiles.

John picks up his paper bags and nods at Peter. “Let me walk you out to your car.”

“Certainly, Sheriff.” Finally, his patience is about to be rewarded.

As they step outside of the store, a wave of heat and light assaults his senses. John nods pleasant greetings to passersby as they walk. Peter’s beginning to regret parking near the back of the lot to avoid careless dings and scratches on his paint job. When they reach his vehicle without the sheriff saying anything of substance, it’s just _slightly_ annoying. He’s pretty sure that the man is using a cheap interrogation tactic on him, and _it’s working._

Damn it all.

He unlocks the trunk in continued silence, and John joins him in stowing the bags in the grocery net.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” John clucks in disapproval. “They put your bread under these glass bottles. And the dry pasta is in with the frozen stuff. Isn’t that always the way?” The man shakes his head and waxes on about the importance of proper bagging until Peter can’t take it anymore. He came out to buy some groceries and indulge in his Speculoos habit. Not to be shanghaied into grocery shopping with his… what _was_ Stiles? Ex-submissive? Ex-boyfriend? Ex-lover? Regardless of description, Peter didn’t come out to have a belated bonding experience with the father of an ex-anything.

Groceries in place, Peter shuts the trunk and faces the man who still isn’t angry—though he might smell a bit amused? Peter’s eye twitches. The apple certainly didn’t fall far from the tree in this case. “John,” he interrupts, “as pleasant as this experience has been—was there something you wanted to say?”

John breaks into the first genuine smile of their time together. “I wondered how long it’d take. If I tell Stiles I saw you, then I’ll have to let him know.” Sharp, blue eyes narrow at Peter. “We talk more often these days. About school, life, his special hobbies, _you_.”

Peter struggles to maintain his neutral expression. He’s already figured out that John knew, but hearing it is rather more nerve-wracking that he expected. “I’m surprised you didn’t arrest me. I know that Stiles isn’t eighteen.”

John laughs without much mirth, “I wanted to arrest you. For more than that, but Stiles explained it. One day I noticed the hickies, and he had to confess that he was seeing someone—which I already knew. Then he came back and told me who it was…” John’s face tenses, his fingers stretch and curl like they want to be wrapped around Peter’s neck. He takes a prudent step back, and John snorts. “Yeah, I wasn’t thrilled about you or your age or the spell. It was a goddamned stupid plan, and I’m shocked it went on this long without blowing up in your faces. I love my kid, but he likes to overcomplicate things.”

The buried protective streak urges Peter to say, “It was actually my idea.”

“Christ! Aren’t you supposed to be the adult here?”

“We’re all works in progress.” The disbelief on John Stilinski’s face might be worth the ice cream currently melting in his trunk.

“You two might deserve each other.” John shakes his head. “I don’t know if I like you. Even if you had good intentions, you still preyed on an emotionally-compromised teenager. I might never be okay with that, but you _were_ helping, despite yourself. He was happier. Sleeping the whole night through, regaining his interest in school, picking up his hobbies again…” his voice wavers. “You helped my son when I couldn’t, and I can’t hate you for that, even if I disapprove of how you helped him. Don’t think for a second that I missed him coming home three weeks ago with that, ah, _necklace_.”

This isn’t the talk Peter had been anticipating. In fact, it sounds a lot like he wants Peter to repair his relationship with Stiles. “Excuse me, John, but this isn’t quite the angry, shotgun rant I thought I’d hear from you. Why don’t we cut to the chase? What do you expect me to do about Stiles’ nightmares? He’s the one who ended our arrangement.”

“Uh-huh. And whose fault was it? I don’t know what happened, and I don’t want to know unless Stiles tells me. But as angry as Stiles has been, it looks like he’s the injured party.”

“Is he still angry?” The words are out before Peter can consider or calculate their effect. If he’s sweating, then it’s because they’re standing on the asphalt in a Californian summer.

“He’s upset. Hurt. Confused.” John’s shoulders sag. “Stiles loves you. I don’t know how or why, but it’s there. It was there when he talked about you at dinner. When he’d mention offhand that you like Russian novels and lemonade and the same trashy TV shows. He still loves you, and _what I expect_ is for you to fix this. It doesn’t need to be over for you two.” John smells like the particular festering pain of old memories, but nothing in his voice indicates the surge of emotion. “At the very least, I expect you to be kind to him if he forgives you. Even if it was just the spell and you don’t love him back, you need to scrape up some shreds of decency and give him closure. But he said you do love him. He said it like it was killing him to admit it.” Peter startles when John grabs onto his forearm and grips hard. “I won’t pretend to understand it, but you loving him. That hurt him. I expect you to start making that right.”

There are few people in the world capable of shocking him. It doesn’t surprise him at all that John Stilinski is one of them, so he says, with more honesty than he’s accustomed to, “I’ll do my best, Sheriff. Thank you for the talk. It was… illuminating.”

“Just take care of this, Hale. I expect my kid to be his usual infuriating self before school starts again.” As John walks off, juggling his bags and keys, Peter can’t deny his grudging respect. Not many parents can put aside their personal feelings to do what’s best for their children. Though this might well be the first time Peter’s been the best thing for anyone.

* * *

A week flies by after his surreal shopping trip with John, and Peter hasn’t made progress towards fulfilling his promise. It’s not that he lacks the desire or motivation to see Stiles, but the situation is delicate. One wrong move could send it toppling over. This time, the plan needs to be simple, flawless. This time he needs to be honest.

With those requirements, it makes sense he hasn’t reached out to Stiles yet.

But while Peter agonizes over the perfect plan, Stiles tenuous claim to patience or self-control snaps. At the least, the fact that Peter can hear the Jeep's tires crunching over his gravel drive means that Stiles has decided to do _something_..

It's been a long month without Stiles, but it's too soon. Peter's not ready. He doesn't know the right words to convince Stiles to stay, and he has until Stiles reaches the door to figure it out.

Too soon, Stiles taps out “Shave and a Haircut” on the front door. He doesn't come in.

 _Oh._ He wants an invitation into Peter's space. That's a level of respect more characteristic of a Stiles in rope bondage than the everyday, normal Stiles.

“Come in,” Peter calls from the armchair, “I know you still have a key.” He smirks when Stiles mutters “lazy asshole” under his breath. Keys jangle against their carabiner and the doorknob, and then Stiles is here.

Stiles looks better than the last time Peter saw him—which isn’t a very high standard—but he’s wearing all of his clothes right-side out. He’s not pale or sickly or shaking. He smells fantastic even if his scent isn’t enough like Peter’s.

He looks like the last month has been good for him. Peter's not sure how he'll react if John is wrong about Stiles’s desires. He tacitly promised to be kind to Stiles no matter what he decides, but it remains to be seen if Peter has the requisite shred of decency to accomplish such a great feat.

Stiles rocks back on his heels, staring critically around the room without even trying to be subtle. Relief floods through Peter at this evidence that Stiles hasn't been replaced by a weirdly polite doppelganger. 

“My dad, um,” Stiles licks his lips, “he said he saw you at the store. Trader Joe's. He said your cart was full of frozen meals and cookie butter. Isn’t that a little lowbrow for you?”

“Cookie butter transcends caste. You’re the last person I thought would cast aspersions on anyone’s snack choices.” Peter can exchange banter in his sleep, but avoiding the elephant in the room won’t do them any favors. Strangely, he feels an obligation to live up to the faith John placed in him. His motives are never wholly altruistic, but he did want to be a good thing for Stiles. Before sabotaging his own prospects, Peter _had_ been a positive part of Stiles’ life.

Peter wants to be that again, wants to take care of Stiles—if Stiles will allow it.

He inhales, tries to breathe deeply past the vice squeezing his chest. He’s a werewolf, werewolves aren’t prone to anxiety attacks, but Peter might be the first. “Stiles, we’re not exactly friends. You didn’t come over to talk about my shopping habits.”

Stiles’ heart thumps out of rhythm; he smells hurt and ashamed and angry. “We’re not friends, huh? What would you call us?”

Peter stays seated. The talk isn’t going quite the way he’d envisioned, and the last thing Stiles needs is to feel cornered. He lifts his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “I don’t want to fight,” he says simply. “But we weren’t friends when we began, and the spell—everything that came after—it muddied the waters. You can’t deny that much.” 

“Fine,” Stiles bites out. “What about when you said you loved me? How can you love someone if you’re not friends with them.”

“Don't put words in my mouth,” Peter snaps. “I loved you. I still love you. You know that I was telling the truth. We had a spell for that, too.”

"Yeah! We did have a spell for that. Because I couldn't trust you, and it looks like I was right. Good thing I was in charge of that one, or you would have broken it too.” Red-faced with temper, Stiles stomps up to the chair and yells, “Jesus, it's like all you know how to be is a paranoid, Machiavellian asshole.” The top three buttons fly free as Stiles jerks at the placket on his shirt. He pitches his voice lower and sneers in what’s obviously an impression of Peter, “Look at me and my serial killer urges. I just can't make the effort to give a fuck about anything unless it gets me something. Oh, I say nightly prayers to Ayn Rand—the greatest philosopher of our time.” He pokes Peter hard in the center of his forehead. “You’re such a dick. It pisses me off so much because I've seen you act differently. I've seen you be kind. To me. You _hurt yourself_ to give me what I needed. I thought about it all month.”

Peter scowls defensively and opens his mouth to say _something_ —he doesn't know what—but Stiles slaps a hand over it. “Nope. You're not going to ruin it with whatever shitty thing you feel compelled to say because this is getting too real. Dad told me that you were supposed to be nice, but he should have known that was asking for too much.” He shrugs, and it’s almost an apology. “Not that I've got room to talk.”

Peter peels Stiles hand off of his face and lifts a brow. He pretends that he doesn't feel an urge to keep Stiles close enough to taste and smell. It would probably be easy to tumble him into bed now, while their tempers are flaring, but they need to talk. They never talked enough before, and maybe this wouldn't be the problem it is now if they'd handled their issues instead of willfully ignoring anything that resembled a serious conversation.

“If I promise not to say 'whatever shitty thing I feel compelled to say' am I allowed to speak?” Peter strokes his thumb over Stiles' rapid pulse. “Or should I let you yell at me some more?”

“Oh. Yeah. Um,” Stiles stutters, the red in his face less about anger now and more about embarrassment and Peter's proximity. “Sorry? I told myself not to go off on you, but I just got mad. I thought we were friends.”

“I'm sorry,” Peter forces out the apology. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but we're not friends. We would have never been friends. Friendship is a weak, pale word for anything we've felt for each other.” He tilts his head back, baring his neck in a mockery of submission. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

Stiles furrows his brows and chews on the ragged skin of his lower lip. “You know that's super fucked up, right? Scott and I are friends, and our friendship’s one of the most important things in my life. But _fine_. If it makes you happy. You're right. We're not friends.” He turns his palm to curl his fingers around Peter’s wrist. “So... what are we then?”

“Your father referred to you as the 'injured party', and he's not entirely wrong.” Peter brings Stiles' hand to his face and scrapes his cheek across the smooth skin, tenderly marking him by scent and the faint traces of stubble burn. “What we are isn't up to me. You're the one who left—who had a reason to leave. I don't want to be without you again, Stiles. Tell me what you want, and I'll do it.”

Stiles is gobsmacked, his mouth hanging open a bit wider than usual. “We both fucked it up, Peter, but anything I want? For real?”

“Anything.”

“In that case…” Stiles scrambles for the bag he'd dropped on his way to yell at Peter and digs around until he turns up a sealed tupperware container, a red heart, and a cheap-looking paintbrush. He smirks at Peter expectantly and waggles his eyebrows. “I'll need a donation.”

He nods slowly. Of course Stiles wants control, wants the spell back. He can work with this; it's more of an opportunity than he thought Stiles would give him—Stiles isn’t much for second chances. Peter extends one claw and looks pointedly at the closed container. “If you would,” he gestures with his clawed hand.

“Oh, right! Got it.” He pries open the lid and pokes at the glop with the plastic end of the brush. Gives everything a few stirs. “Just one drop. Ready when you are.”

Peter stabs his thumb just enough to get the blood flowing. One crimson drop wells up, and he lets it fall into the mix. Stiles mutters the same unintelligible words from the only time Peter heard the spell performed. He stirs three times clockwise and three more times counterclockwise. After a moment, the stuff liquefies and takes on an oily sheen. Satisfied with its appearance, Stiles paints the heart all over, and together they watch the heart suck in the liquid, leaving no outward trace of the spell.

“Here you go, Peter. One fresh focus, made to order. Handle with care this time.” From his position on the floor, Stiles casually tosses the heart to Peter and asks, “So, how do you feel? Any different?”

“Stiles, we’ve repeated this spell dozens of times by now.”

“And your point is?” he drawls. “Why don’t you humor me?”

“What would you like to hear, Stiles? The truth or the lie? Which would comfort you?”

Peter sighs and tucks the heart into his shirt pocket. Somehow he’s grown weary of lies and half-truths—all the games he found so important. What’s the point of winning if he can’t have what he wants?

“No. I don’t feel any different. Perhaps I wouldn't love you so much or so well if we hadn't done it. Maybe the spell taught me how to love someone less selfishly. But with or without magic, I love you. I want to wreck you. I want to see you in my bed, eyes wet with tears because you feel so much.” The fresh scent of Stiles' spicy arousal fills the room. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and fights the urge to reach out and _take_. He grips the back of Stiles' head and tugs him forward, so Stiles can lean on Peter's knee if he wants. “I want to own you. I want to take care of you, soothe your hurts, kill your enemies. I want everything about you, and a spell isn't going to change that.”

There’s nothing new about their position, but never has Peter been in the role of the supplicant. Stiles may be the one on his knees, yet Peter is the vulnerable one. The one with something to lose. Holding eye contact, Stiles shuffles forward into the spread V of his legs and deliberately lays his head down on Peter's thigh. Then his eyes close, relief and happiness suffusing his scent.

“I was hoping you'd say that. I had this whole plan when I came here. I was going to tell you that I wanted to do this with you again, and I'd tell you to keep the focus safe. One day I'd ask you to break it. When it felt right.” His eyes pop open and he leans for his bag again. This time, Stiles pulls out the collar, clutching it like a lifeline. Only the spike of anxiety in his scent and his trembling lips betray his nerves. “But fuck that. We already did the hard part. We're already in love. I don't want to be without you either. Let's just skip to the end where we're fine and go from there.” He aims a shaky grin at Peter. “Tell me you don't want this.”

Peter cups his jaw and bends until their foreheads touch. This close Stiles' smell is intoxicating, and his eyes seem backlit by a manic glow. “Are you sure you want this, darling?”

Stiles breathes back, “Yeah. I'm game if you are. Sir.” He grins smugly. “Say yes. You know you wanna.”

“Brat.” Peter tips Stiles' face up for a chaste kiss. “Yes. I do.”

“We're gonna be _awesome_ this time. I promise.” Stiles puts some space between them to thrust up his arms. He holds out the collar, flat on both palms, and offers it to Peter. An ideal model of submission until he opens his mouth. “Now what's a guy have to do to get his goddamn collar on again?”

Peter can't stop his laugh at Stiles' perfect, inappropriate response. He’s willful, disrespectful, and so very dear to him. Peter accepts the collar from his kneeling submissive and smiles faintly. “You have five minutes to be naked and kneeling on our bed. Your time starts now.”

For a moment, Peter thinks he's pushed too far, but Stiles' face splits into a cocky grin. He bounds up, racing for the room after tossing a sloppy salute in Peter's direction.

He'll have to do something about that. In five minutes. For now, Peter sits, one eye on the clock and the other on the heart he's taken out of his pocket. The seconds tick by. At three minutes and thirty-six seconds, Peter crushes the heart to powder and stands.

With a last glance at the clock, Peter brushes the grit from his hands. He's a minute early, but they’ve waited long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first story over 10k that I ever finished. For a while, it was the only fic over 10k that I had finished.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed The Love Thieves whether this is your first time reading it or if you're reading it again, now that's it's been reposted.
> 
> Lots of people helped me with this story, but I'd like to thank Bones, Pibroch, TriDom, and Mysenia for all the feedback and editing help they gave me.
> 
> When I finally write the alternate chapter, I'll post it as another chapter here, but until then, I'll mark this as finished.


End file.
